Two-Point-Zero
by BlueRiverSteel
Summary: Some things just don't change. A little bit of sentiment, a little bit of first aid, a little bit of comfort for Team Free Will. One-shot tag to 11x02, Form and Void, partners well with chrissie0707's 'Callback'.


**2.0**

A/N: Short tag to 11x02, Form and Void. This actually follows chrissie0707's 'Callback', so be sure to check out that coda as well!

Enjoy!

* * *

They've barely made it back to the bunker— _back home_ , Dean thinks of Sam's words with a tiny internal grin, and since when is he this smiley when shit is hitting the fan in such a huge way?—talking over Amara and the Darkness in a way they haven't done in months at least, when the stack of books catches his attention. He's momentarily taken aback, having apparently expected to come back to the library as it always is—clean, organized, comfortable.

Sammy always makes sure of that.

But the last few weeks are such a blur, especially after Charlie and the Stynes and the Mark really taking hold; he'd forgotten that the monsters had ransacked the place before he showed up and slaughtered them all.

Half a second. Half a second is all he gives himself as the memories slot into place—blood spatters in a sleezy motel bathtub, the little sister he'd never wanted ( _god, why had he ever said such a thing aloud?_ ), a mansion and a laboratory, then more blood, more rage, more killing, and Cas, god, _Cas_ —lets himself feel it for just a moment before he's aware of Sam moving to his side.

 _Suck it up, Winchester._

"Man, we need to get a maid," he says emphatically, hoping Sam isn't feeling as overwhelmed as he, knowing his younger brother definitely _is_. "You know, one with a tiny little uniform, and a really big—"

Sam's got the beginnings of another grin on his face, but they both straighten at the small thump that sounds from the other side of the room, behind the books. Guns drawn, they make their way around, and Dean ignores the uncharacteristic pit in his stomach. It's so much worse than it normally would be; monsters don't scare him, but this is their _home_. The thought of one of them in here…

He never finishes that thought before he catches a glimpse of dark dress pants and a dirty trench coat, white shirt beneath spotted liberally with brown blood.

"Help me," Cas growls from flat on his back, and Dean wants to kill something all over again. His friend looks like hell, bloodshot eyes and pale skin and lacerations _everywhere_ , doubtless made with an angel blade, or they'd be healed already.

 _Freakin' angels._

A single look is all it takes, and Sam is headed for the kitchen to get water and supplies—Dean doesn't take time to appreciate the way they're already beginning to work off each other again, but he notices, and files it away for later—while he kneels beside his friend, hands and eyes beginning the ever-distressing task of triaging injuries.

"Cas, what happened, man?" he asks quietly, not really waiting for an answer or expecting one, calloused hands working the beaten angel out of his coat. "Angels find you or something?"

Cas grunts, shaking fingers fumbling at the buttons of his ruined shirt while Dean examines the cut on his face. "I need help."

"That much is obvious," Dean winces when the fabric falls open and his friend's torso is revealed—not just lacerations, he sees, but stab wounds, dark and deep. "Aw hell, Cas."

Sam arrives then, with a basin of water, some rags, and the first aid kit they always keep well-stocked. Years of dealing with battle wounds stop him from saying anything about the wreck that is Cas' chest, but Dean hears his near-silent intake of air, feels him tense from a foot away. "Gimme," he orders, and Sam wrings out a thick rag, holds it out to him, helps Cas divest himself of the remains of his shirt while Dean goes to work.

It takes a good half hour to get Cas disinfected and sewn up, and during that time they manage to get enough information to figure out what's going on—attack dog spell by Rowena, a desperate prayer to Heaven to prevent further bloodshed, and the resulting torture. Dean once more finds himself wanting angel blood; the feeling similar to what he felt after Charlie, but not as dark—all protective instinct and not poisoned by the bloodlust of the Mark. It's familiar, and in a weird way, it makes him feel better knowing the Curse's toxic influence really is gone.

They manage to get Cas settled in one of the less-musty rooms in the bunker, one Dean had originally—like, two years ago—intended to clean up and offer to him, before…god, even before Gadreel. The angel isn't quite asleep when they cover him with an old wool blanket, and he grabs Dean's forearm as he moves to leave. "Dean."

Sam stops too, and Dean puts his hand on Cas' shoulder, patting the tense fingers around his arm with his other hand. "Cas, man, you need to sleep—"

"Dean, they betrayed me." Cas' face is crumpling, his fingers holding tight enough to bruise Dean's arm. "Hannah…turned on me. And I killed her. I killed them all. Dean—"

"Hey, shhh, man, come on," Dean soothes. "I know it's been a shitty few weeks, I'm sorry. Get some rest, and we'll talk it out when you wake up, okay? You're way too exhausted for this right now."

"I'm dangerous," Cas almost chokes on the words, and Dean locks his jaw against the wave of emotion that sentiment prompts. How many times has he been in this position? Has Sam?

"Well I guess that just makes you one of us, then, don't it?" he pats Cas' hand again, and this seems to placate the angel just enough to loosen his grip and relax into the pillows. "We'll figure it out. Just like we always do."

Behind him, he feels Sam almost smile, and he thinks maybe they will.

 _One ex blood junkie, one dropout with six bucks to his name and Mr. Comatose over there._

 _Some things don't change._


End file.
